I hate to put this here, but here's another short story. I call it, "On Tap".
“Okay, tell it like you told me.”
“My rifle was heavy, and my bag wasn’t much better. My first thoughts that morning were Here’s hoping everything goes according to plan, as I took a hefty, but not too hefty swig from a bottle of Kraken. I always thought black rum was cool, mostly because of how similar it is to the shit pirates drank way back in the day. Anyway, the machete hanging on my bag was at a bad angle, pulling the top of my backpack down, and tugging on my chest straps weirdly. My second thought was This simply will not do, and I wasted another couple minutes fixing that. The biggest problem is that I was wasting time. Time was something I did not have much of.
I hurried through town, the razorwire laced through the chainlink fence around the village catching the first few rays of sun and playing weird tricks on your eyes. Hopefully, that could save me. The soft Georgia clay would give me away if I didn’t watch my footing. Luckily, I made it over to the blacktop, where they kept the cars. If I made it in time, I could grab keys from the Motor Master’s desk before he got in for the day. But first, I had to find the right vehicle. I’d need something with good handling, hopefully off-road capability. It would also have to be something that could outrun anyone who followed me. The problem with all of that is that scouting parties were going out all the time. Naturally, they would want a vehicle with all of the capabilities I just described. Which in turn means that all the vehicles that fit my criteria have variable amounts of fuel. I needed a lot of fuel. My choice was narrowed to all of the crap cars they kept on the blacktop for emergencies: a tractor trailer cab, a dump truck from 1988, and a ‘94 Volkswagon Bug. The choice was clear. New dilemma: there were only two car-accessable paths through the forest outside of the village. God only knows how many Zulus were out there. Those two paths were the only safe routes out. The problem was that both paths were guarded pretty heavily. Except at one time every day: eleven in the morning, when all scouts knew it was safe to enter or exit the village. But I wasn’t a scout, didn’t have a badge, and didn’t have the security clearance.”
“So, what’d you do?”
“Please don’t interrupt me. It breaks my concentration.”
“Sorry.”
“ Bartender! Another shot? Yeah, I got a twenty. Right on.
Okay, where was I? Ah, yeah. I didn’t have security clearance. But I did have a rifle. So, here’s what I did: I shot a car. I thought it'd blow up, or something. Put a slug through a pretty blue jeep. Alarm went nuts, which shouldn’t have been on in the first place, and it sent the whole town up in flames. Zulus outside the gate started moaning and clawing at the razorwire, rotten flesh dropping off like wet papier-mâché, just swinging and pawing at the fence , cutting themselves to ribbons. No blood. Something dead that long has no blood. And that’s really the worst part, isn’t it? There’s not much splatter, not like normal things. They just slop and plop all over the place, fingers, arms, heads, guts, just all of it. Anyway, the town was fucked to hell. Here’s the kicker: the live, unsliced Zulus were crawling over the shredded ones, using what was left of them like a ramp. The morning sun was just sliding into place above the village’s clearing when the first gunshots broke out. I didn’t want this. Not like this, anyway. But, I couldn’t exactly stop it. So, I grabbed some keys, a hose, and a couple gas cans, and got to work siphoning gas. I wanted a good car, and I had my eye on a heavily customized Jeep Liberty, the current model. Brochure said it got forty-two miles to the gallon. I was gonna put it to the test. My third real thought that day: Jesus, it’s even clean! Do they even use this thing? Even the seats were vacuumed off, detailed like crazy. I cleaned out the tanks of a beautiful ’79 Challenger, a beat up Yukon, and I was almost done with a Prius when the gunshots got a little too close for comfort. I figured two and a half cans was probably alright. After all, it was a lot of gas. I screwed on the caps and, as I turn around, out of the corner of my eye I see Benedict, the town lawman, unloading his revolver into a Zulu’s head, point-blank. I believe that’s when I made the decision to fuck off. I hopped into my beautiful silver getaway, and hit the road. I nailed one of those dead fucks so hard his lungs exploded. He coughed up this black goo all over the hood of my car. “
“Hey! You in the leather! Shot on the bar for ya!”
“Hey, grab my shot, will ya, here, give him this too. Oh, and order me a beer with this.”
“What kind-“
“I don’t know, something seasonal.
Okay, so, I’m revving my engines, playing this sick Robostep remix one of the guys in Rations Team put together. “
“Rations team? Sorry.”
“Yeah, the guys who put together your rations. You know, they put it all in the box. You know, so you don’t starve. It’s your food for the day. How do you not know what I’m talking about- Okay, anyway, I’m fucking cruising. Not a Zulu or Scout in sight for miles. Here’s the problem: I’ve only been at this village for like two weeks. I can’t remember if I took the path out of the forest or through the forest. So, I’m like, Holy fucking shit, where am I? And the growth is getting thicker and thicker, and the path is going all over the place, and it seems to be getting darker the longer I drive. Every now and then I hear the echo of a gunshot from the village over the Jeep’s engine.
Then, wham! Sunlight! I’m on the fucking highway! I’m going and going and fucking headbanging to this epic music. You had to have heard it, man. It was the best remix. Then I stop at this insane, gridlocked wall of cars. It wasn’t safe to walk through it, I couldn’t drive through it, so I thought about it a bit. In the hour I took to eat my stolen rations- no, I didn’t steal them from anyone, I pretended to be a couple guys who are actually dead in the system, so I just collected dead guy food. If I remember correctly, it was tacos. It was like, freeze dried stuff, and you’d add hot water and close it up in a pot, and it turned into food. It was like beef and peppers and onions and a couple tortillas. Good stuff. Anyway, I came to one conclusion: I had to go backwards. As I passed the exit I’d come from, I could see smoke from the village. Better this way than the other, I figured.
Oh, thanks, Mmm, this is good beer. “
“It was seven dollars and fifteen cents.”
“Alright, here. Check it out, top shelf Boilermaker. Mm, holy shit, that’s good. And strong. Whoa. Alright, so, I’m driving and driving, and finally, I come to what appears to be the outskirts of a town. A McDonald’s, a Burlington Coat Factory, a ghetto-looking Muzic Store and what appears to be a combination Asian restaurant-laundromat. As I that wasn’t weird enough, there’s no one here. All the lights are on, there’s no sign of violence or bloodshed anywhere that I can see. As I get further into the city, I hit what seems to be downtown. Every apartment is dark. Cars in driveways and parking lots everywhere, but no people. Then, all of a sudden, POW! Lights are going everywhere, these big bright green ones, and people pop up everywhere with guns, and a couple of them yelling at me to get out of the vehicle. Now, I had two choices: go out shooting, or obey. I chose survival, obviously.
What was that?”
“I said it’s not exactly obvious. Maybe you fought your way out somehow.”
“I am flattered that you think of me in such an impressive manner. But no. I am not a moron. I got out of the fucking car. I threw my rifle on the ground, and dropped to my knees. One of the assholes yelling at me came up and frisked me. After feeling me up pretty good, he told me I could leave, or pass through. But they had no place for me there. Freaky, I know. Those guys were scary people. And ordinary men like you and me have no business with scary people, remember that. You, too. So, I said ‘pass through’, and they let me through to greater West Virginia.”
“Where you ended up here.”
“Bingo. Hey, kid, here’s a fifty. Give it to the bartender for a burger and a bottle of whatever fits the bill. Remember that. The words ‘fits the bill’ are kind of important here. Alright. Any questions?”
“Where’d all the money come from?”
“You amass an awful lot when it’s worth nothing. Next.”
“How fucking high are you, dude?”
“I’m not high. Just really fucking drunk. Next.”
“Seriously, dude. You must understand that story is not real, right?”
“What do you mean, like, as a report?”
“No, as something you actually experienced. Look, I’m kind of worried that I sat down at the table in the corner with the crazy guy at it. Just, to like, ease my fears-“
“’Ease your fears’? What the fuck?”
“Just eat your burger and don’t drink whatever that kid is bringing you. “
“You think I’m being poisoned or something?”
“I just feel that the story is better when you’re more sober. Just like, a little drunk.”
“Oh, that is a good-lookin’ burger. Alright, just tell me something.”
“Sure.”
“Did you not like the story?”
“Okay, so you understand that it was just a story, right?”
“I mean, it did happen, but yeah, that account of what occurred could be considered a story.”
“Zombies aren’t real. You know that, right? You know, I think you’ve had enough to drink.”
“Ted, why you gotta be such a buzzkill?”
“Oh my god, Ted. Let’s just go home. Come on.”
“Get away from the windows!”
The windows broke, pushed by dozens of pairs of hands from the outside. Moving corpses crawled in. They got Ted, gnawing through pant, skin, and muscle to feed on his body.
“Ted!”
“Maryann! Run! Ruuuuaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuugh!”
Maryann got the hint, and sprinted for the back door, but it was a dead end: the stockroom.
“Pass me my machete! Destroy the heads!”
Heads rolled as the machete ripped through the air like some primitive lawnmower.
“Dylan!”
“Ted!?”
“Kill me!”
“Ted, no!”
“Please!”
“GET OUTTA HERE! INTO THE STOCKROOM!”
Dylan ran in and waited for the exciting and mysterious stranger to shut the door. A final head severed, and the door slammed shut, the latch pulled. It was dark, the only visible thing being the line of the floor under the door.
“Why has no one turned on the lights yet?
“There’s no lights in here.”
“I’m pretty sure there are.”
“The cord is slapping me in the face. I just wanna know why no one turned them on yet. “
“I think Maryann turned them off.”
The lights clicked on, and they notice the elephant in the room. Three dead people are eating Maryann. It begins to dawn on them that Maryann turned the light off again for a reason. A machete whistles through the air and seems to beat a head cleanly off, then another. The third rises as the “Zulu” stands, but it too is swiftly parted with its head and some of its neck.
Dylan vomits.
“God! On my pants, Dylan?”
“I’b zorry!”
“Jesus, that’s disgusting!”
When Maryann’s head is chopped down the middle, Dylan experiences aftershocks.
“GOD, NO! Not again!”
“Dylan, my God!”
Dylan collapses. His head is next for removal. Blood spews up the wall like a red flower, accented by the fluorescent lights to become a vibrant and vicious crimson.
“What… Why would… you…”
“Bite wound on his ankle. He was turning into one of those.”
“What do you mean, ‘turning into?'"
“You… You murdered… him…”
“He was already dead. If they bite you, you’ll die. Then you get up. Then you eat someone like they ate Maryann. Then they do it too.”
“You murderer. You murderer! YOU MURDERER!”
“Shut her up! They’ll hear her!”
“Patti, it’s me, Dan. Come, on, Patti-“
“YOU MURDERER!”
“Patti, please, I’m beggin you, please-“
“MURDERER!”
“SHUT HER UP!”
Dan draws back his fist in a panic and slugs Patti as hard as he can, with all two-hundred and fifty pounds behind his knuckles, lifting ninety pound Patti’s tiny feet off the floor. One of her shoes come off as she faceplants with a sick crunch against the corner of one of the shelves.
”Patti… oh my god, Patti, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
A little trickle of blood oozes out from the corner of Patti’s mouth where she lay in a pathetic, staring heap, upside down on her head and shoulders against the whiskey case. The blood ran up her cheek, looking an awful lot like a disturbed smile. The stranger leans against the tequila shelf, and pops the cork off a bottle of Patron, drinking deeply.
“Jesus, that burns. I fucking told you people. Nobody ever listens.”
